ded,
as well as the dense array of squadrons and the bristling walls of
infantry.

CHAPTER XXI. THE SUMMIT OF THE LANDGRAFENBERG

After a brief delay at Mayence, it was with sincere pleasure I received
my orders to push forward to the advanced posts at Wetzlar, where
General d'Auvergne was with his division. Already the battalions were
crossing the Rhine, and directing their steps to different rendezvous
along the Prussian frontier; some pressing on eastwards, where the Saxon
territory joins the Prussian; others directly to the north, and taking
up positions distant by a short day's march from each other. The same
urgent haste which characterized the opening of the Austrian campaign
a year before, was here conspicuous; many of the corps being obliged to
march seven and eight leagues in the day, and frequently whole companies
being forwarded in wagons drawn by six or eight horses, in order to
come up with the main body of their regiments. Every road eastward was
covered with some fragment of the army. Now an infantry corps of young
conscripts, glowing with enthusiasm and eager for the fray, would
cheer the _caleche_ in which I travelled, and which, as indicating a
staff-officer, was surmounted by a small flag with an eagle. Now it was
the hoarse challenge of an outpost, some veteran of Bernadotte's army,
which occupied the whole line of country from Dusseldorf to Nuremberg.
Pickets of dragoons, with troops of led horses for remounts, hurried on,
and long lines of wagons crammed the road.

At last I joined General d'Auvergne, who, with all the ardor of the
youngest soldier, was preparing for the march. The hardy veteran,
disdaining the use of a carriage, rode each day at the head of his
column, and went through the most minute detail of regimental duty with
the colonels under his command. From whatever cause proceeding I knew
not, but it struck me as strange that he never alluded to my visit to
Paris, nor once spoke to me of the countess; and while this reserve on
his part slightly wounded me, I felt relieved from the embarrassment
the mere mention of her name would cause me, and was glad when our
conversation turned on the events of the war. Nor was he, save in this
respect, less cordial than ever, manifesting the greatest pleasure at
the prospect the war would open to my advancement, and kindly presaging
for me a success I scarcely dared to hope for.

"Nor is the hour distant," said he to me one morning in the l